


Aesthetics

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3507368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Low self-esteem? Sign up for the Decepticons’ patented cure: seduction!  Now comes in two flavors: coaxing and claiming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Aesthetics  
 **Warning:** Silliness. Vague sex stuff. People really trying to get laid. Dubcon that isn’t, due to the aforementioned attempts to get laid.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1  
 **Characters:** Blast Off, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, Skyfire, Vortex  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** An ”I think I’m ugly” kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=14906773#t14906773)

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 1: Coaxing. Side effects include leering, courtship displays, and competitive flattery.**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Orbit around Earth would have been lonely if there weren’t quite so many things up here these days. The humans launched more satellites every month, some of them exclusively to tag along after the Decepticon shuttles. A few dogged the Autobots, too, but most of them swarmed the Decepticons. They were early- warning devices, observation and analysis drones, and crude attempts at weaponry.

Astrotrain and Blitzwing ignored the alert systems, played catch-me-if-you-can with the science bots, and sicc’ed the weapons on the newbie. Blast Off grumbled and destroyed the things. A couple times, he caught and reprogrammed the primitive things to turn back on the other shuttles. It wasn’t hard. The humans were just beginning to venture into space combat, and their computers were laughably easy to hack. 

Even without the human-made clutter around Earth, orbiting the planet could be interesting. There were five of them up here now, not counting SkySpy’s occasional jaunts up, and they were all under orders to keep an optic on each other. Not to engage, oh no. No starting battles without explicit orders, but they couldn’t separate off to pass each other in distant, regular paths that required no interaction. The Decepticons were in constant radio contact, adjusting flight paths to annoy one another if nothing else, and they lurked around Cosmos and Skyfire. They were under _orders_ to shadow the Autobots. The Autobots, in turn, had orders to keep tabs on them. 

It was kind of ridiculous. It was the worst spy vs. spy set-up ever. Astrotrain and Blitzwing used to chase SkySpy around just to have something new to do. Cosmos would buzz in to rescue the little drone, and the shuttles would at least have an hour or so of obligatory cursing contests with the Autobot. He seemed as happy to break the monotony as they were.

Blast Off arrived, and for a while, teaching the newbie how Earth orbit rolled kept everyone occupied. There were a lot of unwritten rules to explain. Cosmos never ventured over to introduce himself, but he did get in on the action when the pranking started. Blast Off had an extensive, if out-dated and snobbish vocabulary for telling the lot of them off. It was hilarious. They sniggered amongst themselves and truthfully told their respective superiors that there hadn’t been a fight whenever anyone got suspicious at the amount of antics going on up in orbit. 

It wasn’t a bad gig. Orbital observers had a weird relation to the war, anyway. The majority of the time, they were supposed to watch the other faction without actively combating them, which atmospheric flyers and grounders alike seemed to think involved ducking behind the moon stealthily, unnoticed. Orbital mechs just heaved sighs and agreed. Yeah, sure, exactly like that. Sneaky-R-Us, that was orbit, yup.

Actually, it was more like circling a rock while staring fixedly at each other. There was no subtlety. They couldn’t lose contact with the enemy -- orders were orders -- and they’d long ago come to the conclusion that if they couldn’t attack each other, why bother attempting to hide?

All bets were off when orders to engage went through, but they could count on one hand the number of times actual orbital combat happened. They were always called _down_ into fights. They never had a problem with that. The atmosphere _in_ atmosphere was different. The rules were fairly explicit about how they behaved, planet-side. Those rules didn’t really apply up above. Orbit was sort of a neutral zone for the Decepticons and Autobots in it, and they left the worst of the war outside to pick up when they left.

Because, if nothing else, the scenery made the unofficial truce _completely worth it_.

“Those wings.”

“Mm-hm.”

“No, I mean, really. Those wings.”

“I know.”

“I just want to **grab** ‘em. Think he’d punch me if I did?”

“I think you don’t have the bearings to find out.”

“Fraggoff. Don’t see you trying.”

“I don’t want to grab his wings.”

“Oh, yeah right. You totally do.”

“Nah.”

“…heh heh, I get it. You like that nosecone. Want to ride, eh?”

“Shaddup.”

Trailing Cosmos, Blast Off passed by the two Decepticons assigned to the Valkyrie class shuttle blithely dooting along ahead of them. “I’m tempted to just proposition him outright,” the Combaticon said. Despite having Cosmos on him this time up here, the other two shuttles knew full well every sensor he had was turned to linger over Skyfire’s sharp angles. Theirs were doing the exact same thing. As always. Guh. “The way Starscream speaks to him, he must be over that.”

Starscream screeched abuse at everyone, but he loaded his words with extra vitriol whenever Air Commander and shuttle crossed paths in battle. The way Starscream talked down to his ex-partner would have scorched plating on anyone but Megatron, but Skyfire merely looked pained. That relationship had to be dead.

“Pfft.” Blitzwing barrel-rolled, displaying for the Autobot politely ignoring them. “Even if he is, what’s that do for us? He’s easy on the optics, but we don’t got a chance.”

“It’d be nice to get some flirting back,” Astrotrain said, roughly wistful. He rolled the other way, because displays looked even more impressive in tandem. The Autobot continued ignoring their antics.

Blast Off headed around the curve of the planet, but the open channel between them buzzed in disdain. “I don’t see the problem. It would hardly get in the way during battle.”

Both of the other shuttles scoffed. “Autobots got weird hang-ups on hook-ups,” Astrotrain stated. “Wouldn’t work. They get all emotional and slag.”

“Optimus Prime and Megatron don’t seem to exhibit any signs of emotions hindering them,” Blast Off started, and static hissed to interrupt him.

“Don’t say that!” Astrotrain and Blitzwing barked.

“Nobody knows about that!”

“What are you talking about? We, of all mechs, are in a perfect position to observe when they meet to -- “

“No, you don’t **get** it,” Blitzwing snapped. “We don’t see nothin’! We don’t hear it, we don’t see it, and we sure as stars don’t **talk** about it. Nobody does, got it?!”

Blast Off was quiet for a couple minutes as that sank in. “I…see.”

“No, ya don’t, and you better keep it that way if you wanna keep your landing gear.”

“What?”

Skyfire drifted into a lower orbit, apparently bored enough to go investigate some old satellites in a decaying orbit. The two Decepticons followed him, still waggling their relatively stubby wings in hopeful signs of ‘hey, look at us’ and ‘we dig the paint job.’ 

The silence over the comm. channel drew out long enough that Blast Off thought the topic cut off before Astrotrain grunted as if coming to a decision. “Ol’ Megs laid into Screamer when hotwings here defrosted. Said stuff about emotions making him weak, like meeting up for a quick ‘face meant they were buddies again. Screamer, uh, yeah.”

“Said some stuff back,” Blitzwing picked up the awkward narrative. “’bout the Prime and that thing we don’t know about, ‘cause Megatron ripped out Starscream’s landing gear and shoved it down his throat to shut him up. Not like he didn’t deserve it, but even Soundwave looked kinda freaked by how quick it happened.”

“So we don’t see it.”

“Deeeeefinitely don’t talk ‘bout it.”

“Don’t even know about it.”

“Right.”

The silence this time lasted until Blast Off came back around the planet. “Even taking into consideration the…nothing…I fail to see why a tryst or six up here would mean anything to him. Autobots contract Swindle for such things regularly now that he’s back in business. To be honest, they seem quite relieved to have someone to ‘face that they’re **required** to remain detached from, emotionally.”

It took a minute for everything to sink in. Of course, what stood out the most immediately was, “Wait, what? Swindle’s **shareware**?”

Blast Off seemed somewhere between contempt and curiosity. “Yes? It’s a large portion of his out-faction business. He can’t sell weaponry to the Autobots, after all, and he’s quite good at customer service.”

“No, I get that, but -- holy slag, I did **not** get that vibe off him.”

“What do you mean?”

Blitzwing caught the edge of warning on Blast Off’s tone. The Combaticon didn’t like his combiner team, but he was stuck with them. Necessity enforced loyalty. “Hey, cut thrust. I just mean he ain’t ever hinted he’s for sale. I’d have jumped on that deal.”

Astrotrain was equally interested. “Been a **long** time since we had a decent hire-mech around.”

“What’re his rates?”

“The rest of you guys ever get in on it?”

“Slag, mech, that’s kinky as a wire-knot.”

“I’m just askin’!”

Bemusement filled Blast Off’s voice. “I…don’t know his prices. Contact him directly if you’re interested. He -- while we’re not in the profession ourselves, he has been known to seek the right frametype for special requests.” In other words: yes. Yes, the other Combaticons sometimes got in on it. “I don’t know anything more than that.” And he wouldn’t spill his gestaltmate’s business deals even if he did, his tone implied. It was no secret that Swindle’s wheeling and dealing had made life at the Combaticon base far more comfortable than a desert exile would otherwise be. His teammates allowed him greater leeway as a result.

Skyfire whirled away right then, changing his flight path to zoom after SkySpy. Astrotrain and Blitzwing’s attention locked back on him, and for a minute their scanners were full of gorgeous pointed nosecone and sharply angled wings. Skyfire flew with a lazy grace that made their heat shields tingle. He was just so -- so -- _nnnnngh_ , okay?

And he was big. Don’t forget how big he was. When a mech got into transportation class frametypes, options for larger partners generally settled into the tubby and rounded range, _if_ a mech was lucky enough to find someone bigger. Skyfire was huge and covered in corners and yum. The Decepticon shuttles wanted to eat him up with a spoon, or their hands if he was more into that. Because they’d be all over whatever he was into. 

“…Autobots don’t lay off Swindle during fights, do they?”

“Not that we’ve been able to tell. He’d have exploited it somehow if they did.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Swindle would somehow manage to exploit his own death. 

Pleasure didn’t touch business, even for Autobots? Astrotrain and Blitzwing mulled that over. They followed Skyfire, but Blitzwing settled just a bit closer than before. Astrotrain inched ahead of him. Blitzwing nosed closer. Astrotrain matched him.

Skyfire seemed as oblivious as ever. Either he didn’t notice, or he was too well-mannered to acknowledge them jockeying for his attention. 

“How serious were you about makin’ a pass at him?” Blitzwing asked, faux-casual as Blast Off went by. 

“You’re not hiding behind me.” The Combaticon sounded disgruntled by his current assignment. Of all the times to get stuck with Cosmos instead of Skyfire. ”Tell him you like his wings. He’s probably starving for compliments.”

“Why?”

“I’ve heard Starscream rail at him. He probably thinks he’s ugly as the Pit, if he’s judging himself by those standards.”

“Pfft, or by what the Autoclods think’s nice.” Astrotrain and Blitzwing made identical sounds of disgust. “The new-jets thought they were deformed, can you believe it? Fragging Auto-idiots.” Maybe this would be easy, then. A few compliments, and Skyfire would be down to interface in no time.

A few compliments, and they were eating thrusterfire as the Valkyrie lit up and tore away, hurt and insulted.

Blast Off squawked startled feedback into the open comm. channel as Skyfire zoomed past. “What did you say?!”

“I said his wings were shiny!” Blitzwing wailed. He and Astrotrain pursued the Autobot, but the mech had a lead and a superior altmode for sheer speed. They were also under orders to stay in orbit, but Skyfire was heading out into the solar system as if he didn’t care what Autobot Command would have to say about it.

“How did you say it, like you were going to rip them off?!”

“No!”

“No, really!” Astrotrain was just as confused as Blitzwing. “I think…I think he thought we were mocking him.”

“What? But -- why?”

“How should I know?!”

“You’re the one who said it!”

“That doesn’t mean I know what he’s thinking!”

“Then why do you think he thinks you’re mocking him?”

“I don’t know! He just -- I don’t know. Didn’t seem to know what to say.”

Blast Off hummed thoughtfully into the comm. channel. Cosmos was almost aggressively tagging after him, now, obviously not happy with whatever the other two Decepticons had done to drive away his fellow Autobot. “He might be shy.”

“With those wings?”

“Nobody with a nosecone like that can be **shy**. We can’t be the first people to want to lick it.”

“I wanna do a lot more than lick it.”

“Heh, got that right.”

“Starscream’s likely trained him to distrust anything positive said about him,” Blast Off interrupted the conversation before it got any lewder. “You know what he’s like. A backhanded compliment is the best anybody gets from him, and that’s if he’s setting you up to cut you off at the knees.”

Astrotrain and Blitzwing gave up on following Skyfire and turned to go back toward Earth. “Urgh, yeah.”

“Makes sense.”

“Aw, frag. You’re saying we’re gonna have to be **nice** , aren’t you.”

“You don’t have to.” Blast Off hoped they wouldn’t, in fact.

“You just want a better chance at him yourself.”

“It had occurred to me, yes.” The Combaticon had actual manners. He could shower Skyfire in sincere, polite compliments until the Autobot took him seriously. Blitzwing and Astrotrain tended to default to crudity. If Skyfire thought they were making fun of him, those two didn’t have the patience not to scare him away by leering at the wrong moment. 

Two out of three Decepticon shuttles were drooling buffoons. Pretty good odds for getting laid for the lone civilized shuttle in the bunch.

Except Blitzwing and Astrotrain really, _really_ wanted Skyfire. 

The three Decepticons settled back into orbit, waiting for Skyfire to return. Things up here had never been boring, but it was about to get _interesting_.

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Aesthetics  
**Warning:** Silliness. Vague sex stuff. People really trying to get laid. Dubcon that isn’t, due to the aforementioned attempts to get laid.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Characters:** Blast Off, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, Skyfire, Vortex  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** An ”I think I’m ugly” kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=14906773#t14906773)

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
**Pt. 2: Claiming. Side effects include Brawl.**  
**[* * * * *]**

Vortex had a problem.

Most people would disagree. Most people would say he _was_ the problem, especially people like Onslaught or the Constructicons. 

Regardless of their opinions on the matter, Vortex’s problem didn’t go away. 

His problem could be summed up in two words: rotor assembly. It was fragging ugly. The post-Detention Centre reformat had done him absolutely no favors in the looks department. He didn’t want to go back in the box -- Pit no! -- but he’d filled out so many reformat requests that Soundwave blocked his incoming attachments out of habit. 

What fragging human had thought it a good idea to make an _external_ rotor assembly? He wanted his old form back, but humans had barely started getting into vertical lift technology. He had the sinking feeling that his reformat requests would continue to be turned down even once he located a better looking human rotorcraft. Onslaught refused to sign off on his requests, citing Bruticus. Apparently if Vortex reformatted, the other Combaticons would have to find a new balance against whatever altmode he changed to. They couldn’t be bothered to do so, and that stuck Vortex with the altmode of ugly.

Ugly. So ugly. He looked like the skeletal remains of a stripped carcass. Rotor blades stuck out of his back in a gangly splay that just sat there. He could spin them, and that was it. The blades couldn’t shift position on the array or even detach, so they stayed in a stiff, bare display of stick-like, useless wings. It would have been better if he could at least collapse them down to lay flat down his back, but no. They stuck out at awkward angles, twirling as if to garner maximum attention to Vortex’s ugly altmode. He could take building girders and weld them to his back, and they’d look more attractive. 

He’d always been a rotary frame, but he’d never, _ever_ seen or scanned such a terrible altmode. It was like whoever had made the thing called it quits midway through and just superglued the entire array onto the outside wherever it’d fit. He hated it. He hated how he looked. He hated how the hub stuck out from his back. He hated how it hung over him when he was in his altmode. He hated the wobble of the blades every time he moved. He hated how vulnerable they were, how easy they were to grab or shoot, and how he kept bonking them on stuff when he forgot how far they protruded. They weren’t sensitive, but they were always, infernally _there_.

They felt awkward and looked worse. They were a problem. They were _his_ problem, because nobody wanted to interface somebody with stupid thin ugly stick-wings slapped onto his back.

It was bad enough that the whole Earth crew had started out assuming he was a sadist in the bunk. Did nobody separate professional and personal pleasures anymore? Vortex loved his job, took great pleasure in inflicting pain during it, but it wasn’t a sexual pleasure. His frag-fun tipped into the masochist side of the spectrum, the area he didn’t get to play in during work.

Which was fine, it was okay, he handled it. Correcting the rumors didn’t take long. The first time he heard them was the time Reflector refused to take him with Brawl, back when the tank was still letting him tag along on the getting-to-know-the-crew free-for-all frag-quest, and Vortex had put the rumors to rest right quick. He’d stood up in the middle of the common room to announce he didn’t like pain-fragging unless he was the one in pain. Cleared up the rumors right away.

Unfortunately, announcing it in public put him directly at odds with the established base masochist. Ramjet didn’t, uh, play well with others, and he certainly didn’t share. Word got out that Ramjet would make life unpleasant for anybody who took pain away from the Conehead’s bunk.

There was a ranking to this sort of thing. First come, first serve, and Ramjet made a point of rubbing Vortex’s face in the fact that he was late to the party. Vortex was the one who’d gotten thrown into another masochist’s playpen. Manners dictated he behaved.

Anyway, he was under orders from Megatron not to start fights, sabotage, or catch other Decepticons in dark corridors to ‘persuade’ them of anything. Killing or torture would probably land him a one-way trip back into the Detention Centre box. He glumly conceded the painplay arena to Ramjet. He wanted to get his bolts torqued, but not _that_ badly.

It turned out not to be a big deal. As soon as Swindle got his little side-business up and running again, Vortex negotiated in on it. No Autobot would trust a Decepticon to inflict pain, but take it? The kind of mech he tended to attract as a masochist didn’t give a slag what he looked like or what faction he belonged to. It was his pleasure in the pain that they wanted, not somebody with shiny plating or the right color emblem. They’d pay out the manifold for a real masochist to take what they wanted to dish out.

Didn’t mean they were any good at walking the walk. The red and gold Lamborghini twins talked it up, but then they wouldn’t shut up. It ruined the fun, for him, and he refused to take appointments with them again. It’d been obvious they were in it to trash talk a Decepticon and beat him up out of vengeance, not because they honestly enjoyed the infliction of pain. Vortex could tell the difference. They could get their jollies during combat, if that’s what they wanted.

Ironhide thought he knew what he wanted, but Vortex pulled out the safeword half an hour into the session. The blasted Autobot was so torn between pounding on a Decepticreep and a natural inclination not to hurt people that Vortex couldn’t get lost in the pain. He wanted the high, the flying-while-grounded sensation of pain sensors maxed out, and Ironhide was both too brutal and not hard enough. Moral conundrums were fine during an interrogation, but they were an irritating distraction out of it. Instead of being fun, it just hurt, and not in a good way. There _was_ a difference.

The Autobot CMO, ah, now that one…that one knew what he wanted. He knew how to get it. He knew exactly what he’d hired Vortex for, and how to make the masochistic helicopter fly. He knew his way around a body, and all the suppressed frustration of a war came out when he had Vortex under his hands. Vortex had resigned himself to taking what he could out of another Autobot beat-down, but Ratchet didn’t go that route. It seemed the one who healed wanted to hurt as well. 

Vortex couldn’t have been happier with that. Those clever hands peeled back plating, severed lines, and rewired nerve points. He pulled Vortex apart, dissembled him cold and clinical while the Combaticon screamed until he laughed, laughed until he sobbed, and slipped into a trance sometime in the midst of the shuddering, suffering, undiluted sensation turning him inside-out. Ratchet took him to the edge where further damage sang through his spark, and his deft touch kept him there to writhe in exquisite agony every session. 

The medic rarely spoke, and when he did, it was in snapped orders early on before Vortex went beyond hearing anything but the high, anguished ringing of feedback. Nothing distracted Vortex from the push and pull of parts of his body being rearranged when Ratchet got ahold of him. Each snapped wire fired a burst of pure _feeling_ through him, followed by the blissful throb of resetting pain sensors. Ratchet twisted fingers deep inside him, maximum pain with minimum real damage, and Vortex arched further into the medic’s hold. 

Only once the CMO finally worked out his pent-up emotions and lust did he finish the job. Two out of three times, Vortex was well past the ability to scream by the time Ratchet jammed his port so full the rim distended. The medic interfaced his scrambled, tortured mess of a body through the system hitches and hiccups no sane person would hook up to. He always waited until Vortex was so glitched he was on the border of shutting down into emergency statis lock. The overloads were hissing, spitting, smoking power-outages that blew out Vortex’s circuit breakers and knocked him cold.

It was _wonderful_. 

The first time Swindle cleaned up after the Autobot medic was through, it took him an hour and a half to coax Vortex down out of the buzzing happy place Ratchet sent him to. He spent the rest of the week drifting in a tingly cloud of afterglow. Swindle eyed him like he’d explode.

Ramjet could keep the Decepticons. Vortex was thrilled with his Autobot. 

Happy masochist or not, the real problem was that nobody outside of the occasional Autobot sadist would frag him. Pain was great and all, but Vortex wanted variety. Agony was too rich for a steady diet. He’d burn up if that was what he fueled with every time. Besides, nobody else was restricted to just one kind of interfacing. Why should he be? He liked painless interfacing between special occasions, and the need for a hard, bouncing, clanging, banging frag was an itch he wasn’t getting scratched.

Oh Primus, it itched. It itched around his wrists where he liked to be held down, pinned under his partner. He liked to be taken control of, even when it wasn’t under a sadist. He craved attention. He wanted someone to dominate him, pay attention to him and him alone, and he wouldn’t struggle. Honest, he wouldn’t! He’d submit if it’d earn him a strong, warm body over him, greedy hands petting and stroking, touching him everywhere until he tingled and squirmed for more. 

Easy, right? Frag requests didn’t get much more harmless than ‘hold me down and feel me up.’ Once people got over their fear of him as a sadist in the bunk, he usually didn’t have any trouble finding someone to trade surges with. 

Except that ‘usually’ was four million years and a Detention Centre away, and now he was the ugliest mech on the planet. Shame didn’t come naturally to him, but Vortex couldn’t look in a mirror without cringing. The rotor blades were just so -- spindly. They quivered if he shrugged. They spun if he was surprised. People ran into walls because they couldn’t stop gaping at the slagging things. 

He swore that nobody could look at him without staring. They jolted if he turned his back, metal clattering behind him as mechs dropped their scrap or banged their heads together leaning closer to stare, and then there were undignified scrambles to act like they hadn’t been ogling his rotor array like spectators at a trainwreck. He couldn’t count the number of bright, totally fake “So! Nice weather we’re having!” conversations that started up if he whirled around at random in the common room. Entire tables of jets fixated on his ugly, thin, not-wing blade-thing-whatevers whenever he walked by.

He got it, okay? The rotor blades looked like his real array had been dissected and attached to him by an ungainly lump of exposed machinery in the middle of his back. He knew weird, ugly things were oddly compelling. He just wished something more than revolted fascination would come of it. He couldn’t even go in the common room anymore without ducking his helm to avoid seeing everyone pretend not to stare at him. 

Fragging stupid ugly awful rotor array and its lumpy back-mounted hub and the blades. Ugh. 

It was a problem. It was a horrible problem. 

He’d thought it was his reputation as a sadist, at first. He’d fixed that, only to find that his bunk remained as empty as ever. 

Then he’d assumed Ramjet had warned everyone off as a jealous, suspicious precaution, the possessive pain-mech. Ramject _would_ be that much of a glitch. He’d delicately ventured some overtures toward the Conehead, hinting that he’d found himself a decent source of what he needed elsewhere. He wasn’t competition. Look at him not be a threat. Why couldn’t they just be friends? Mildly antagonistic coworkers, at the very least?

After a while, Vortex had come to the realization that it wasn’t a fear of sadism or Ramject that was keeping mechs from propositioning him. None of the Decepticons would approach somebody who looked like him, no matter how often he sat alone. Sitting at an open table in the Decepticon common room was a slightly desperate plea for company; anybody who actually wanted to be by himself wouldn’t be in the common room at all. Vortex sat by himself all the time, ready to throw himself into the lap of the first mech who made a move.

Nobody ever sat down. 

Trying to do the propositioning himself failed even worse. He had zilch self-confidence -- hey, he knew what he looked like -- and he had difficulty even getting his vocalizer to activate off-duty these days. Mechs looked scandalized or flummoxed if he dared sit at an already occupied table, and conversation limped along until he left again.

It hadn’t been so bad the first year after reactivation. Brawl had been okay with him tagging along and taking his leftovers in the berth. Vortex had worked hard to make sure none of Brawl’s many, many bunk-buddies walked away unsatisfied. He’d thought he’d done a pretty decent job at it, too. Nobody had complained, anyway. Most of them came back for a second shot at the tank, at least, and they evidently told their friends, because it seemed like everybody wanted a turn fragging Brawl. Vortex wanted some of those mechs for himself, but he’d kept his helm down and stayed behind his gestaltmate, letting Brawl arrange whatever happened. He wouldn’t have guessed a grunt soldier with a tank altmode was that desirable, but the Decepticons practically lined up to hop in Brawl’s berth. 

Word got around fast that interfacing Brawl meant including him. He really hadn’t wanted his ugly altmode to get in the way of Brawl’s bizarre sexual magnetism, however, so he pretended disinterest in the people chatting Brawl up. He only joined in once Brawl beckoned him in. He counted himself lucky Brawl thought threesomes were the definition of a teambuilding exercise.

It disappointed him that the tank favored the sporty sleek type. The four sportscar Stunticons liked treads. That harem had almost assembled itself, and that put an end to the pity-frags. Oh, Vortex liked that he could take advantage of their numbers to get some from a straggler while Brawl was busy with the main herd. He liked that just fine, but the way Motormaster insisted on supervising the orgies had disturbed him too much. The Stunticon leader regarded him with utmost suspicion. He seemed to think the interrogator was a danger to the team. The mech stood there and _glared_ at Vortex and Vortex alone. 

Even though Brawl said the other Stunticons were fine with Vortex joining in, all the helicopter could think of was the night Motormaster had lunged in out of nowhere and grabbed him by a rotor blade. He hadn’t done anything else. He’d just grabbed the rotor blade and stood there, venting heavily and working his hand over it as if he wanted nothing more than to crush it. Vortex had frozen for a long minute, tensed for a fight while Breakdown hid against his chest from the red optics glaring down at them both. 

Motormaster had let go eventually. The only reason Vortex had finished up was because he couldn’t afford a reputation for leaving his partners hanging. He’d done Breakdown as fast as physically possible and gotten out of there before things got violent. 

He’d told Brawl later that he had too much pride to cram himself into the middle of a relationship. He hadn’t told the tank that he wouldn’t go back to Stunticon territory because he thought Motormaster was going to nail his rotors to the wall if he touched a Stunticon again. The loyalty program insisted he couldn’t start fights. He didn’t want to test if that meant he couldn’t defend himself if someone else started the fight.

So much for sloppy seconds. It’d been nice while it’d lasted.

He’d had Blast Off for a while longer, but that dried up eventually. The shuttle stopped coming down from orbit ready to throw him down and ravish through the bunk. He didn’t know what had changed, but his best guess was that Astrotrain and Blitzwing had decided to open up to a threesome. Frag his luck.

That left the other two Combaticons, and there wasn’t a chance in the Pit, there. Onslaught might as well have _‘Don’t Touch Me, Minion’_ stapled to his backstruts. Swindle didn’t play without pay. Neither of them had any sympathy for his plight. They just looked at him like he was crazy whenever he complained about never getting laid. 

Leaving Vortex to deal with his problem alone.

He didn’t know what to _do_ about it. All his solutions boiled down to a reformat, and Soundwave and Onslaught had him stonewalled on that.

He hated his altmode. He hated how he couldn’t meet anyone’s optics without hunching his shoulders and feeling the rotor blades on his back shake from the motion, which only made him feel more disgusted by his appearance, which became a vague shame that he had to look like this and people had to look at him. Conversations petered out the minute he stepped in the common room. Everyone kept stealing glances at him and looking apprehensive if he started in their direction. 

He was getting his masochism button pounded but good by Ratchet, but that didn’t solve the problem. He was still so ugly nobody would clang him. He was going out his head craving a decent interface. His equipment ached. His plating rattled every once and a while, longing for contact. He was _this close_ to begging Swindle to advertise him to the Autobots as bargain-basement shareware, just so someone, _anyone_ would touch him.

He trudged down the hallway after retrieving his ration, fed up with his miserable life. Maybe he should go spar with Brawl. Maybe he should go fill out another reformat request. Maybe he should sit down in the bunkroom and polish up, pretending it was somebody else’s hands on his body.

…yeah, he was pathetic. This was rock bottom.

Loud footsteps stomped up behind him fast, and Vortex had just enough time to half-turn before the wall smashed a flat spot on his mask. “What -- ? Hey! **Hey** , leggo!”

“I will not,” growled too close and low for comfort, “be teased any longer.”

The loyalty program clamped down on the urge to fight back -- loyal Decepticons don’t fight other Decepticons, he _could not_ start a fight-- and Vortex’s raised fist stopped, hovering midair. Panic and rage swamped him in equal amounts. No, no, _no_ , he had to be able to _defend_ himself. A loyal Decepticon had to be able to save his own life!

The gestalt bond had never been good for much, but right now he was cramming an S.O.S. into it as hard as he could. Onslaught pinged back immediately, and Vortex flung ‘help-alert-under attack!’ at him in a flurry of alarmed data packets ripped out of his scanners.

That was the best he could manage, since his upper thought processes had just gone a bit wibbly. Hot metal pressed him into the wall, full body contact from knee to shoulder, and the hand on the back of his helm yanked it to the side to expose his neck. A mouth assaulted the side, and the hand not forcing his face into the wall was --

It was fondling his rotor blades. Fingers stroked the tip of one of the upper set, thumbing the thin metal and petting the backs of knuckles down the length. Vortex twitched and whimpered as his neck cables were licked. The hand on his helm came down to curl around his throat from behind, pulling him back, closer to the heavy weight keeping him against the wall. The blade was petted once more, all the way down to the rotor hub, where the hand molesting him palmed it, groping vigorously.

Chills shot up and down his wires as words panted against the wet bitemarks now decorating the side of his neck. “Think you can flutter these at me, huh? Think you can flaunt your pretty blades without consequence. Think you can get us charged up and licking your heels from a spin or two. Ha!” 

The hand on his throat left, and Vortex felt the mech fumbling behind him. The action came through a haze of confused pleasure stamping out his thoughts. Starved for contact as he was, even the weight keeping him pinned felt glorious. The thrum of his rotor blades being toyed with connected straight to his spark chamber, and he made a small whining sound pleading for more. 

“You’re nothing, Combaticon,” snarled into his neck, and his knees melted. That weight on him felt absolutely wonderful, just _perfect_. He was pinned by sheer body weight alone, and it was even better than being tossed on a berth and kept down by hands around his wrists!

He slumped against the wall and made a few more urgent ‘frag me hard and often’ noises. Onslaught’s repeated pings were shunted into a queue to be looked some time other than now, when his interface array wasn’t climbing up into the driver’s seat to run his body. The fumbling behind him intensified, and the mouth sucking on a fuel tube left his neck. Vortex moaned as teeth dented a rotor blade next. 

The harsh snarling didn’t stop, getting louder as a powerful engine shook them both. “You’re a criminal. A nobody. Anybody could have you. You think you’re so special, you and your precious pretties. Untouchable, huh? You think you’re untouchable? You think you’re above us?! You think nobody’s gonna dare take what you’re putting in our faces?!” The hand on his hub reached out and grabbed his tail rotors, yanking his arm back and spinning the smaller hub back and forth faster and faster while the strain in his attacker’s voice mounted to a yell. “We should all start **uggnh** taking ah, ah haaa, ahh. You.” 

The last words came out in great gulping sighs between clenched teeth and rotor blade, and Vortex suddenly realized what the fumbling had been. 

“You’re easy. **These** are easy.” A slow lick, and Vortex hadn’t even known his rotor blade had sensors on that edge. “You didn’t even put up a fight. I knew it. I knew you wanted it. Nobody flirts like that and teases everybody without wanting us to snap and take what we want.”

“Um.” Vortex’s legs shook as his knees wobbled, and his interface array burned in a steady, pulsing beat that would drive him mad. He had no idea what was going on. Had he just been rutted against in a public hallway? Did this count as sexual assault or did he have to pay for this service?

He…he had money..?

Cold air rushed in to fill where armor had covered him in heat a second earlier. He whimpered protest. 

“Maybe I’ll tell everybody how easy you are. We can take turns winding you up.” A big hand gave his tail rotors a last spin.

He reset his visor rapidly but couldn’t muster an objection to that mental image. He didn’t _want_ to object to that mental image. “I, um.” He should probably tip extra for that mental image.

“Keep flirting your pretty blades,” a sneer dared him. “See what happens. Nobody’ll believe I had the bearings to take you, but they’ll believe it when I do this in front of them.” Something tweaked in the naked mechanism of Vortex’s rotor hub, and the Combaticon squealed in shock as an unexpected overload took his legs right out from underneath him.

Heavy footsteps stomped away, somehow sounding self-satisfied the whole way. 

Vortex slid down the wall and stared after Motormaster, wondering what had just happened and how he could get it to happen again.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Script Title:** Aesthetics  
 **Warning to Audience:** Silliness. Vague sex stuff. People really trying to get laid. Dubcon that isn’t, due to the aforementioned attempts to get laid.  
 **Show Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity Stage:** G1  
 **Characters:** Blast Off, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, Skyfire, Vortex  
 **Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** An ”I think I’m ugly” kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=14906773#t14906773)

 

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 3: Confusion. What everyone else sees going on.**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Beauty, among Decepticons, seemed to have a direct correlation with cruelty. The prettier a mech, the crueler he was. Starscream was some kind of case study for that science. Generally voted the most gorgeous mech in the ranks, his berth also topped the vote for what the Decepticons would run the other way from. Just for him, Swindle had added the category _'Would Rather Fight Optimus Prime 1-on-1'_ for the date night vote.

They'd still frag him, given half a chance. They'd just immediately throw themselves into a pit of Sharkicons to avoid whatever he planned for them afterward.

The latest beauty to turn up on Earth had all the hallmarks of continuing the legacy. He crushed their sparks underfoot effortlessly. Primus save them, but they were lining up for the privilege. They’d had ages to get used to Starscream, after all. Vortex showed up out of nowhere to tease their libidos to begging.

"To tradition," Thundercracker said dryly, hoisting his cube, and the table echoed the toast at a low grumble. Even Soundwave stirred himself to clink their cubes together. Nobody took their optics off the lone occupant of the table in the far corner of the common room. 

Bare rotor blades flicked. Exposed mechanisms whirred. Soundwave's vents opened wider, visibly drawing in cool air. His enhanced audios gave him every click and clank of swash plate and hinge, letting him record a sinful symphony of metallic intimacy. He provided those recordings for a small fee. Half the mechs at the table right now paid a monthly subscription for downloads of those audio files. The other half paid either the Cassetticons or Reflector for images and videos of Vortex doing...whatever. Anything.

It didn't matter what he was doing. They wanted to see him do it. The Combaticon was a walking pin-up model, and the base's collective sparks fluttered whenever he turned his back. Their equipment tightened into twisty coils behind their panels, too. He showed up, and everyone’s core temperature rose. They’d watch him on monitor duty all day if that’s what was available, because every shift in his chair stuttered their fans. 

The Cassetticons had pranked him once, at risk of life and limb. He was a violence-hungry Decepticon just like the rest of them. He hadn’t taken getting drenched in orange paint well at all, and Soundwave had been forced to intervene to save Frenzy and Rumble from a maddened, orange-streaked interrogator on a rampage. The other Decepticons had laughed somewhat breathlessly at the flared rotor blades and unhinged violence. It’d turned to unabashed moaning when the second half of the prank paid off.

Laserbeak, in the washrack, recording. Dear holy interfacing aids had mechs paid out the manifolds for that video. It was so fragging _rare_ that they got to watch him without the act in place!

The cogsucking tease knew exactly what he was doing to them. He held the whole base on tenterhooks dancing about trying to get a decent look at his pretty rotor assembly. Even here in the common room, he coyly kept his back to the wall while he took his ration. He sat there at his table all alone for half an hour at a time, visor down but for measuring looks around the room, letting the anticipation build as he flicked his rotor blades in flirty spurts of movement. When he judged everyone's attention sufficiently locked on the glimpses of rotor blades moving behind his shoulders, he stood up.

It happened like clockwork. The Vortex Fanclub assembled at the table today leaned forward right on cue, mouths drooping slightly open and optics glazed. Vortex stood up, shuffling around the table to maximize the amount of time facing them, hiding the real treasures, and then --

Bam. Flashed.

Skywarp made a little sound, a needy little sound like his intakes closed so hard they attempted to invert. Reflector's shutter snapped with the sound of a machine gun on full automatic.

Vortex didn't just flash the exposed rotor assembly on his back, oh no. He hunched his shoulders in a fashion-model moue to really _show it off_. It was the equivalent of a woman not just pulling up her skirt to show off her garters, but giving a full-on glimpse at her lack of panties. Thundercracker bit his lower lip in hungry lust at the gleam of open machinery. It was practically obscene. None of that should be seen. Vortex’s entire back painted him openly, nakedly vulnerable, all long blades and achingly sleek pins turning in a complicated apparatus that should be tucked under armor. Everyone at the table clenched their hands into fists or held onto their chairs to resist temptation. It’d be so easy to reach out and _pet_ those long blades. 

Bonecrusher’s ration cube cracked, spilling energon across the table. Nobody noticed. 

They were too captivated by the slight jog quivering down slender blades as Vortex eased around a chair. The idea of having one's propulsion system hanging out in the open like this was both scandalous and charge-inducing. Then, on top of that, it was a vertical propulsion system. A _rotary_ system, as uncommon as jets were common, and the internal hardware was laid out for one and all to see. Optics and visors went pained from the sudden pulse of charge. Imagining it wasn’t enough. Seeing it in person had the table spellbound.

The sight was startling, _shockingly_ improper, just this side of outright fondling interface cables in public. That would have been enough to have them panting, but there was more. Primus save them, there was more. The tiny sounds of a rotary assembly underlay every move Vortex made. Nobody present had ever heard those noises until Vortex arrived on Earth, and they couldn’t unheard it now. Without armor in the way to muffle it, the mech's rotary assembly made more noise than seemed physically possible, and Soundwave recorded every scraping clink. Dirge was already forwarding Soundwave his account information to buy today's gloriously sexy racket. Thundercracker was seriously considering doing the same. He could jack off to that. He already had. Somebody’s engine was turning over right now, they were getting off so hard on it.

Four jets, two audio/visual specialists, and a Constructicon stared hot enough to smelt metal at the lewd sight of an Earth-made altmode that turned casual interest into burning arousal. Rotaries were fairly rare flightframes back on Cybertron, trick-flyers and supply convoy personnel. Scarcity had made them exotic among the Decepticons, but enter humanity's version of a helicopter, and exotic became erotic. Exit any form of dignity. The Decepticons trapped in close proximity with that altmode had no choice but to worship the minor deity of lust dwelling in their base. Vortex wore his propulsion system on the outside, and it was smoking _hot_.

Skywarp made a whimpering sound. Thundercracker could tell it was a stifled moan. Naked rotor blades, clean and long and delicately, deceptively slim, whirled a quick circle. They were sharp enough to slice air to ribbons. The Seekers couldn’t help but compare them to their own wings, and they were amazingly small. Thin, mobile, and _exposed_. Everyone leaned forward, fixated on the twitch of gears and cogs -- _they could see it all!_ \-- and Vortex clearly felt their heavy, charge-addled gazes on his back. The blades turned again as if to pinion their attention until he peered over his shoulder and caught them staring.

Gaping, really. "Nice flying weather lately!" Thundercracker yelped a bit shrilly. It almost hurt to yank his optics to his wingmate. "Right?!"

"Uh-huh." Skywarp's reply wasn't terribly coherent, but at least he wasn't dribbling on the table. "Weather. Nice." He wiped his chin.

"Very nice!"

"Sure..."

Vortex gave them a knowing blink before primly stalking from the common room, offended by their blatant admiration. His rotor blades quivered with every step. Fans hitched in time. Nobody vented out until he was out of sight.

"He is such a **tease** ," Thrust groaned. He fell forward and thunked his head on the table. "Why's he gotta be like that?"

"Tradition," Thundercracker sighed. He threw back the rest of his ration and tried to bring his fans back under control. "You saw what he did to Motormaster. He's just waiting to cut us off at the knees."

Even Soundwave nodded morosely. Then again, Soundwave probably understood best of all of them what kind of sadistic delight the Combaticon took in twisting the dagger of attraction in deep. Every time Vortex sent in a reformat request complaining about how he looked, Soundwave had to write the rejection, and he had long ago run out of tactful, professional wording for, “You don’t need to be reformatted; you’re already the sexiest mech this side of the Milky Way.” Now he just blocked attachments from the ‘copter, hoping the Combaticon would find someone else to reassure him he was the most gorgeous thing around.

Soundwave knew better than to think complimenting Vortex established any sort of connection between them. He’d been the one to post the warning for those who hadn't witnessed Vortex's public humiliation of Motormaster. Thundercracker knew he personally wouldn't forget the night Vortex bounced in, rotor blades spinning hypnotic allure. He’d been happiest anyone had ever seen him as he made a beeline for the Stunticon table. Motormaster had seen him coming and had just enough time to look alarmed before a lapful of rotary plopped down on top of him.

"So," Vortex had purred, sixteen types of overdone mocking seduction painted across his voice and visor as he twined his arms around Motormaster's helm cowl, "what was that about doing me in front of everyone? I'm here. They're here. **I** believe you've got the bearings to clang me on the table!"

Cruel excitement had met embarrassed, sputtering rage. Motormaster's systems had flushed so much coolant he’d actually dropped several degrees on thermal scans. Absolutely confident, Vortex had made himself at home in the stunned Stunticon's lap, grinding against him in showy lust without a sliver of reality behind the spectacle. Everybody, _everybody_ knew a mech like _Motormaster_ didn't stand a chance with somebody like _Vortex_. 

Frag, the one and only time Motormaster laid a hand on Vortex directly, the helicopter had reportedly been two seconds from taking that hand off at the wrist. Breakdown had told the rest of the Decepticons, "He froze up. Fzzzt, full stop! I didn’t dare look at either of them. Swear by the interstate, I thought he’d murder us all.”

The other Stunticons still hadn’t forgiven their commander for getting their ‘facing privileges cut off cold. They’d had Vortex _and_ Brawl for a while, there, which was the best of land and sky as far as they were concerned. They’d been the envy of the Decepticons. Then Motormaster had touched Vortex, and Vortex had refused to come back after that. 

Everybody had taken the lesson to spark: don’t touch the pretty rotor blades unless the pretty rotor blades give you permission to touch, or that’s the last you’ll see of the pretty-pretties.

Which was why Motormaster had flushed, cooled, stammered a stunned babble of vowels that meant nothing much, and suddenly stood, dumping the purring rotary to the floor. Without, everyone noticed, touching a single rotor blade. He really didn’t have the bearings to pet Vortex, not after that lesson. Not even with the mech egging him on, just daring him to try something, anything. Motormaster was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid.

The common room had _cracked up_ at him. Vortex had sprawled on the floor in an indecent display that Motormaster practically _fled_ from, and the Decepticons howled laughter. Not that they could blame the Stunticon for storming off in a humiliated huff, since that really had been a cruel trick. The mech didn’t meet Vortex’s standards in the slightest. He knew it, and Vortex had shown his real colors rubbing Motormaster’s face in his inadequacies that way.

Nobody quite knew what standards Vortex had, but they were apparently astronomical. Vortex had his gestaltmate _screen_ his lays, believe it or not. Vortex was so skittish about who deserved his attention, he ignored anyone who tried to approach him, shoving his tank teammate between him and potential suitors. He looked at anyone who tried to skip Brawl like they were crazy. The whole faction knew to approach Brawl if they wanted a chance at the base beauty, and it’d only happen if Brawl gave them a pass. 

Woe betide a Decepticon who didn't interface with Brawl first. Thundercracker vividly remembered the scathing look Vortex had turned on him for attempting to drag the ‘copter down onto the berth. “What?” he’d asked.

“Rude?” Vortex had asked right back. He’d slid out of Thundercracker’s grasp and behind Brawl. “It’s not my berth, mech.”

Brawl had laughed it off. “Aw, c’mon, I don’t mind!”

Vortex laughed high and shrill, a giggle holding all the contempt of a true beauty toward an overeager suitor. Thundercracker hadn’t been able to stop a shamed flinch. “We all know who he’s here for,” the ‘copter had said, voice thick with scorn. “Let’s not make things more awkward, huh?”

Brawl had hesitated, thinking that over. Slowly. “Uh…okay?”

“Right.” Vortex had nudged Brawl in the small of the back, pushing him toward the Seeker squirming in heated embarrassment on the berth.

Lesson learned, Thundercracker had kept his hands on Brawl after that. It wasn’t a difficult task. Brawl wasn’t a bad consolation prize. He was fairly cute for a grounder, with that turret and the treads, and Thundercracker had to admit having Vortex watch them frag had gotten his systems riled. It was the most bizarre version of an audition he’d ever gone through, but oh.

Ohhhh, it’d been worth it. Vortex had judged his performance with Brawl worthy, it seemed, and Thundercracker remembered the blissful interface afterward in loving, multiple-files-saved detail.

Most of the Earth crew had similar files saved. Vortex made access difficult, but he made the prize worth the hassle of getting it. There wasn’t a Decepticon aboard who didn’t vote for Vortex as the best lover available. Blowing circuits wasn’t enough. Vortex seemed to take pride in how high he could build the charge before letting the breakers finally snap, drawing it out until mechs begged and sobbed, clutching at him as he fingered their ports, explored their altmode kibble, and slowly, ever-so-slowly unkinked their interface cords, breathing gentle torture over their input jacks. There was a distinct wobble in his lovers’ knees the next day, if one knew to look for it, and everyone looked. Swapping whispered tales of the night before was a time-honored tradition, serialized and spread among the crew by an anonymous narrator.

Thundercracker had the series downloaded. Guaranteed, he’d be in his bunk tonight reading his favorite story, listening to Soundwave’s raunchy recording of Vortex’s intimate sounds, jacking off in the dark until his joints bled sparks. He wouldn’t be alone. Skywarp pushed back from the table, optics alight, and Thundercracker knew where he was off to. Any other Decepticon put on a show like that, and the crowd in the common room would be hustling double-time to chase his aft. The group jostling through the door at the moment wouldn’t be running after Vortex, however. They’d be finding somewhere marginally more private to take care of the surge of lust his coy little act sent through them, every time.

The closest any of them would be getting to Vortex anymore was a story, a picture, a creak of an assembly they dreamed about when pulling their own cables. It was the cruelty only someone that beautiful could inflict on his watchers. 

“To tradition,” Soundwave said, and Thundercracker nodded.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**[* * * * *]**   
_**Part 4: Advertisement. Show the skittish shuttle what’s available.** _   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Life on Earth went on as ever. The Decepticons attacked; the Autobots defended. Sometimes battle lurched the other direction. 

Important events for those involved in-atmosphere, but generally mild spectator sport to the mechs in space. Another battle? Woo. Go team. They’d cheer if anyone bothered to send up a status report letting them know what was going on dirtside, but that didn’t happen often. Instead, the shuttles made up their own versions of what stirred things up.

“Optimus wouldn’t put out last week,” was Blast Off’s default wager, just to make the other two scowl at him for saying what they were thinking out loud. Their default was a much safer (and statistically more accurate), “Starscream did it.”

Cosmos was probably making slag up wholesale, but his commentary on dirtside conflicts was entertaining enough that they asked his opinion frequently. “Nah, I vote against Starscream on that one,” he said after an explosion big enough to see from orbit detonated. “That one looks like a Wheeljack. Mirage did another mid-frag fade-out, I bet.” 

They laughed, but the Decepticon shuttles made a collective decision not to sexually frustrate inventive engineers. Very bad idea.

So the planet spun on as per usual, but they had more interesting matters to attend to these days. Life in orbit had become anything but boring lately.

“He’s looking,” Blast Off reported, more than happy to pass along status updates. The possibility of seduction made potential rivals into eager allies. After all, if Skyfire loosened up enough to consider fragging one of them, then it wasn’t so great a jump to consider fragging _all_ of them. “Showtime is a go. I repeat, this is a go situation.”

“On it.” Blitzwing stepped up his efforts to turn the spacefaring pudding cup into melted goo. 

Said pudding cup seemed unfazed by Blitzwing’s increased efforts, just flaring his armor for better access up underneath his waist. Most of his attention remained on his own attempts to render Astrotrain into incoherency. “Where in the nebulas you been hiding this for the past decade?” he muttered as Blitzwing traced the rims of his thrusters. “You know how much better patrols could’ve been if you’d propositioned me our first orbit up?”

Blitzwing could have used some help molesting Cosmos’ many, many thrusters, but Astrotrain’s brain had gone a bit melty under the Autobot’s benign assault. Why oh why hadn’t they chased the minibot’s fat aft around the moon earlier? Sure, minibots weren’t an ideal Decepticon frametype for hotness and naughty thoughts, but smelt him for tin cans if the packaging wasn’t misleading on this one! Two whole skirts of thrusters, weight to rival any full-size mech, and Primus alive, _why_ had none of them stopped to think about tiny hands? Tiny hands could do things and get in places Astrotrain was _really_ appreciating right now!

“No idea,” he gasped. “Stupidity. War. Satellites. Soundwave’s surveillance. Oh, frag, what I gotta say to get you to do that again?!”

“Mm, try ‘please.’”

“Please!”

“Have some pride, mech,” Blitzwing said over a private line, but it came out impressed instead of disapproving. 

Astrotrain whined a response, thin and desperate as Cosmos finally pulled those wonderful tiny hands away from his ports and replaced them with what he’d been begging for in wordless noises. Blitzwing bent closer to watch despite Blast Off’s immediate protest.

“Stop blocking the view!”

“You keep your cameras on hotwings.” Because no way in space was Blitzwing taking his visor off _this_ show. The amount of moondust Astrotrain’s heels kicked up kept them screened from Earth as the moon turned, but it’d cause problems later. At least for Cosmos, anyway. NASA pestered the Autobots about activity on the moon. If Soundwave noticed what happened overhead -- more like when he bothered to care, really -- Blitzwing could shrug it off by saying he was doing donuts in tankmode, or he got into a fistfight with Astrotrain. 

Yeah. That might be a better cover story. Astrotrain wasn’t getting out from underneath Cosmos without some dents. In fact, the three of them should agree on a cover story before going their separate ways, or awkward questions about their scuffs might interfere with a repeat.

Blitzwing didn’t think Cosmos would mind telling a tale or two. Nobody who bucked like that gave up his new happytime toy without strenuous protest, and it wasn’t as though a little lie about interfacing the enemy halfway to Jupiter and back was going to change the course of the war. 

Astrotrain moaned. The layered flanging of his voice made it an entire Greek chorus of throaty pleasure, and he writhed as much as a bulky shuttleframe could. Frowning in concentration, Blitzwing ignored Astrotrain’s unprecedented flexibility and felt around trying to find a decent hotspot. Cosmos’ thrusters heated in appreciation for the extra effort, but he kept right on doing what he was doing. Which was fine, but c’mon. Blitzwing wanted to _top_ the little glitch, not just hang on for the ride! 

What a ride, though. Blitzwing gave up and dug his fingers into thick armor, shaking slightly as charge rose. He just didn’t have enough experience with minibots. He knew the _theory_ , but obviously he was far, far behind in practice compared to space-Casanova, here.

Feedback shrilled through all channels as Astrotrain tipped over the edge. He also flailed over onto his front, stubby wings waving. That pulled their crossed cables, but Blitzwing’s muffled moan was from the pulse of released energy. He groaned into the back of Cosmos’ neck as it hit them in a quick peak almost too high and sharp to be pleasure. The second wave dulled, the pleasure washing through them in slow waves of overload that went on and on as three entwined systems traded excess electricity back and forth. Cosmos outsized engines thrummed against the chugging of Astrotrain’s. Charge snapped up Blitzwing’s cannon barrel in a visible crackle.

It took a minute to scrape his mind out of its puddle of bliss. “Good?” Blitzwing asked fuzzily into the open channel.

“Good enough. He almost crashed into a TV satellite.” Blast Off transmitted a short vidfile of Skyfire’s wobbly flightpath. “He’s still not replying to my hails, but you got his attention.” 

“Compliments?”

“They’re not bouncing, so he can hear me. I don’t think he believes me.” 

“Fivesome,” Astrotrain said a tad deliriously. “Wanna fivesome.”

Blitzwing could sympathize, but facts were facts. “You don’t have enough **ports** for a fivesome, loser.”

“Gotta mouth.”

“…huh.”

Blast Off interrupted their train of thought by veering off from dogging Skyfire around the moon. “I want in.”

“Not ready to tag out!”

“How many of me are you seeing, Astrotrain?”

“Three?”

“Right. I want a turn with the minibot. I probably have more to show off interfacing someone his size, anyway.” He had _teammates_ that small. Sort of. Swindle wasn’t quite a minibot, but he was in an approximate size range. In any case, they were trying to blow Cosmos’ circuits in hopes the word would be passed to Skyfire about what good fragbuddies they were. Buttering him up to pass on their invitation for a fivesome, maybe.

“You just want a turn,” Astrotrain grumbled as he started the long, weak-kneed process of standing up. Blast Off maintained a tactful silence because that was definitely a factor but he wasn’t going to admit it. Astrotrain either didn’t notice or understood completely. “Frag, he’s good. Why didn’t we do a moon landing until now?” Cosmos leaned forward against his attempt to push him off, and Astrotrain blinked at the moon under his nose. “Um. Somebody get shorty off my back. He’s slagging heav **eeee!** ” 

Blitzwing sat back on his heels, mouth dropping open as both of Cosmos’ hands slipped under Astrotrain’s wings, fingers already curved into wicked, wiggling claws. Gah, _tiny hands!_

The surprised yelp eased into a breathy, “Ahhhhh,” without pause, and Astrotrain’s elbows gave out, dumping the mech face-down in the dirt.

“Nevermind?” Blast Off ask dryly as he came in for a landing.

“Get down here and join us,” Blitzwing said. He was already fumbling for another set of cables. “I think there’s plenty of Autobot to go around.”

And if Skyfire stayed well away from the resulting orgy, he couldn’t say they didn’t lay out an invitation for him.

**[* * * * *]**

**A/N: Thanks for reminding me I had this fic to work on. You know who you are.**


	5. Pt. 5

**Script Title:** Aesthetics  
 **Warning to Audience:** Silliness. Vague sex stuff. People really trying to get laid. Dubcon that isn’t, due to the aforementioned attempts to get laid.  
 **Show Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity Stage:** G1  
 **Characters:** Swindle, Prowl, Vortex  
 **Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** An ”I think I’m ugly” kinkmeme request (http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=14906773#t14906773)

 

 **[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 5: Clickbait. What you see is not what you get.**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Swindle didn’t sell out his clients. Common sense dictated that the armed and dangerous type he sold to would relocate his brain module via blunt force trauma if he sold information about their deals. Besides, who bought from a merchant with a reputation for turning around and running to the authorities? His client files stayed locked and his lips stayed sealed.

Not that there wasn’t fine print tacked on. A small proviso, a quid pro quo.

 _“Slight exceptions made for bargains too good to resist,”_ it read. 

And even finer, tucked underneath in teeny-tiny writing: _“’Not dying’ is always a good bargain.”_

This situation had the fine print _all_ over it. A gun muzzle heated a sharp little circle on the back of his helm, small but charged enough he could tell it’d blow his head clear off if Prowl took the shot, but Swindle didn’t think he would. Maybe. Face down and held at gunpoint, Swindle admitted he might be overestimating his bargaining position.

Time to see how much wiggle room he had. “The point of a confidentiality clause,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, “is that I don’t tell anyone.”

Prowl’s trigger finger tightened. Swindle could tell. The pistol’s generator whined as it gathered charge to fire, and he winced despite himself. The mech was crazy! “You can’t be serious!” he blurted out in the moment of panic. “You can’t kill me over what your own faction’s doing!”

The hot spot disappeared right before a hard hand grabbed him by the back of his neck, and Swindle yelped in pain as the Autobot hauled him back onto his heels. “It’s permissible to execute an enemy combatant for a variety of reasons. It is a far more unfathomable scenario that I will allow you to walk away **alive** ,” Prowl said in a clipped voice, every word spoken without emotion. “I will take what you said as admission that you have indeed sold to Autobots. That’s grounds for charges of treason on both sides of this war, and the sentence for that has not changed.” He paused. “I believe Megatron has an elite unit whose sole purpose is the punishment of traitors. Unless you wish me to contact them or handle your sentence myself, I suggest you start talking.”

Sitting on his broken axle was about as much fun as it sounded. Swindle still managed a laugh. “Copper, you try to enforce those laws here on Earth, and I’ll be the least of your worries when it comes down to it. I **sell** my wares, especially the kind you’re asking about. You shoot me over selling, what’re you gonna to do about the ‘Bots and ‘Cons giving it away for free?” Navigating fraternization laws had been a nightmare back on Cybertron. The close quarters of Earth made it worse. On this planet, treason was a strange, intimate thing everyone pretended not to see happen. Discretion was the name of the game.

Prowl said nothing. Either he didn’t know how high the stakes were, or he didn’t care.

“You want to start somewhere, how about you go talk to ol’ Optimus first, eh? You should ask him about **ow!** ”

A clicking _zap_ shocked the back of his brain, and Swindle shut his trap. Oh, great. The slagging loyalty program wouldn’t let him tattle on his leader even with his own life on the line. Fragging _Pit_ did he hate that thing!

Prowl, bless and curse him, didn’t ask what caused Swindle to yelp. “I am not asking Optimus Prime. I’m asking you.”

“I noticed,” Swindle muttered. Ducking his head, he brought his arms up to pry at the fingers holding him upright. The gun nudged under the back of his helm, however, and he opened his hands in resigned surrender. Getting loose obviously wasn’t an option, and hinting at a higher authority hadn’t worked. That left talking like they were reasonable people. Swindle didn’t get his hopes up.

“Look, Prowl. Bossbot.” Flattery never hurt. Also, every Decepticon knew that the stronger mech was the mech in charge. “I’d love to help you get your crusade on. Really, I would. Punish the villains and right whatever wrongs you’ve got your spark in a tizzy over, slay the dragon and rescue the damsel -- Datsun? -- but this is the real world. It’s not that easy. You know that.”

“I want names.”

Tact lost out to frustrated exhaustion. Primus help him, it was like talking to a brick wall with doors. 

“And I don’t want to sell out my customers, so now what? You shoot me? Go ahead!” he snapped. There was a crick in his neck linkages from keeping his head at an awkward angle against the sore spot the gun muzzle seared on the back of his neck, the loyalty programming was humming reminders of its presence in his mind, and Prowl had been pursuing him for _weeks_. Swindle could be a surprisingly patient person when circumstances demanded it, but this was too much. 

The nagging irritation of scheduling around a determined busybody had kicked up to anger the fourth time he found his shipments intercepted, searched, and confiscated. Anger became rage when his legitimate business -- because he did actually make a large chunk of cash through legal means, believe it or not -- became bogged down in three countries by Autobot-instigated investigations. Prowl had been interfering with his profits enough to truly get on his nerves lately, and then today had rolled around in an hours-long chase through the shipping yards of San Francisco.

Swindle was officially _fed up_.

At least he didn’t go down easy. He took grim pleasure in that. His ankle tires hung loose on a broken rear axle, his lips were split, and half the stuffing from his passenger seat had been torn out, but he’d roughed Prowl up almost as bad before the Autobot finally pinned him down. ‘Ambush’ didn’t mean ‘easy.’ The humans would be cleaning up smashed shipping crates and scorched boxcars for days. 

They’d be picking up bits of Decepticon, too. Prowl’s pistol gave off a familiar metal-ringing whine, and Swindle flinched, regretting his flash of temper as quickly as he’d lost it. Suddenly, getting out of this alive seemed like a fantastic bargain. He hadn’t really thought Prowl would do it, but --

“Wait! **Wait!** We can deal!”

Desperation brought out deep discounts. In merchant terms, Swindle’s frantic yell was conditional surrender. His greed glitch meant sales were as close as he could get to giving his goods away, and fortunately for him, ex-Enforcers spoke capitalism almost as well as forged conmechs. He’d yet to meet a detective who didn’t know how to wheel and deal for information.

The gathering charge at the back of his neck cooled as Prowl’s finger eased off the trigger. 

“What kind of deal?” Prowl asked. It was a mere formality. His monotone said as clear as words that he was going through the steps for Swindle to give him information on the person he was after. They both knew the deal was rigged.

Swindle seethed but understood exactly where he stood in negotiations. “Maybe if you’d tell me what you’re looking for, I can point you in the right direction. That would help you, right?”

“It would help me to have a name.”

A name, singular. Alright, they’d narrowed it down to one person. Good. Losing one client limited the damage, and Swindle could find a way to spin the story so the rest of his customers never found out he was to blame for Prowl coming down on the poor mech. 

Careful to stay facing forward, obedient to the pistol against his neck, he spread his hands in feigned helplessness at no one in particular. “Boss! Come on, help me out, here! I can’t name names.” 

“Yes,” the gun nudged him, “you can.”

One purple optic squinched up in discomfort, but Swindle expression was pure exasperation. Work with him, mech. They both knew Prowl wasn’t out to actually execute him, now, so let him work up to forking over the suspect’s name. “I’d be out of business in a week if my books opened for anyone.”

The gun muzzle didn’t move. Prowl was waiting for his cue.

Swindle squirmed but fed him the next line in their script. “I work with a lot of people. It’s possible that one of them might have done something a tiny bit illegal. I mean, these things happen, right?”

More waiting. Prowl knew where this led. He wasn’t going to make it any easier.

“And of course I want to cooperate with any sort of investigation into their, ah, extracurricular activities. After all, I want it to be clear that I’m not involved in anything that would damage my good name.” 

His self-righteous statement earned a snort of air Swindle interpreted as an amused huff, but Prowl countered with the appropriate question. “Am I to understand that you are unaware of your…employee’s activities?” Yeah, no, the Autobot didn’t believe that for a second.

They’d narrowed it down further, however. An employee, huh? This was about somebody who worked for him, not a client.

Sometimes following the unwritten rules did make these negotiations easier. Prowl got what he needed, and Swindle got to distance himself from the guilty party. 

“I have no idea who you’re even questioning me about!” he protested. +10 for sincerity! -10 for intent, because he could think of half a dozen _whats_ Prowl could arrest him for on any given day of the week. He just didn’t know which one had earned Prowl’s ire today, and frag if he knew who Prowl thought was responsible.

Wait.

“If this is about Vortex…”

Prowl said absolutely nothing, but Swindle could tell the difference between someone waiting in silence and this sudden tension at his back.

He heaved a sigh, blowing stale air out his vents as every tensed gear in him relaxed all at once. “It is. It’s slagging Vortex. Of course it is,” he said to himself before tilting his head to the side to catch a glimpse of Prowl. “You’re barking up the wrong tree on this one, copper. The only thing I hire Vortex for would incriminate your side worse than mine, and while I’d **love** to see you try and prosecute him for that, you won’t unless you’ve got a grudge against your own faction.” He shook his helm without concern for the gun wedged under it. Selling shareware had been legal on Cybertron and wasn’t recognized as selling sex as the humans knew it. Any trial on it would devolve into a scandal over the details, not the act itself or even the people involved. No way would the Prime allow Prowl to open that public relations nightmare on Earth.

“Whatever else he’s done wasn’t on my bill,” he finished. He couldn’t even think of anything Vortex had done lately to bring this on. Outside of the usual pitched battle or standard interrogations, but Prowl wouldn’t be poking into Swindle’s business by himself if that was the case.

Prowl hesitated a second before speaking. “You hire him.” The muzzle pressed to his neck slowly drew away.

Swindle blinked a few times. “Yes? I do that. I hire people.” One of the advantages of being the boss was delegating tasks to hired help. When he dared turn his head enough to look, he saw Prowl frowning as though confused by the simple concept of hired help. The pistol remained pointed vaguely in his direction, but the interrogation was over. Swindle didn’t feel threatened anymore. 

Curiosity won over wariness, and he had to ask, “What’d he do, anyway?”

Prowl stared at him, broken out of whatever he’d been thinking. Swindle’s fuel pump stalled as the Autobot abruptly stepped back, but Prowl shunted the gun into subspace as he moved. “What he was hired for, evidently.” His frown deepened. “Unless we’re speaking of separate incidents. Has he complained to you about his treatment at your clients’ hands?”

Er. “What? This is about that?” Swindle waved a hand, impatient but unwilling to say aloud what they both knew. Yes, he’d hired Vortex as shareware, and yes, he’d sold the ‘copter as such. “You know what I mean.”

Well, this was awkward. Prowl shifted on his feet, optics hidden in the shadow under his chevron. “Yes. This is about…that.”

Swindle gaped up at him.

Prowl looked to one side and coughed uncomfortably into one hand. “I need an answer.”

“Um, no.” Unnerved, Swindle shook his head. “If we’re talking about him getting his gears stripped and clipped by mechs I’m not gonna name, then no, he hasn’t complained. He’s into it, trust me.” It wasn’t a secret that Vortex was a masochist, and Swindle had sold him to enough Autobots that he’d thought the word was out. 

Things fell into order, although it was the sort of order only an outsider looking in would come up with. He’d have to triple-check his secure locations from now on. Prowl must have either spied on or been told secondhand about one of Vortex’s appointments, and from an outsider’s perspective, Swindle could see how it would send an ex-Enforcer out for justice.

“He’s not being raped,” Swindle said a tad weakly. The idea of an Autobot on the warpath to defend _Vortex_ , of all people, blew his mind. “He’s on my payroll. I’m aware of what he’s doing. I set up him up with clients who want specialty services that he’s willing to provide.”

Cautious as a mech disarming a bomb, Prowl asked what he had to. “Is he being coerced? Blackmailed?” Swindle shook his head silently. “Drugged? Pushed beyond his limits? Has he attempted to stop or leave the situation and been forced or told he must continue?” He didn’t seem to believe the merchant’s denials. “It’s difficult to believe that he agreed beforehand to the level of damage inflicted upon him, much less that he welcomed it. Of the six incidents brought to my attention, he was unable to walk without assistance after four.”

“That sounds about right,” Swindle tried to remember what the last six times had been like. Ratchet was probably to blame for the four Prowl was talking about. Vortex wasn’t good for much after the medic was done with him.

“I…” Prowl reset his vocalizer. “That is good to know. I don’t enjoy investigating such crimes.”

Swindle had no idea what to say to that. “Thanks for trying?” he hazarded. Vortex was going to laugh himself sick that the Autobot Second-in-Command had been ready to hunt down and punish any Autobot who abused him.

Black-and-white doors flicked, and Prowl drew himself up. “You’re welcome. However, I require a list of his clientele for a further investigation. The one, ah, perpetrator I have identified has insufficient funds to pay what my informant tells me a session costs, and I know there are more Autobots buying from you. They cannot possibly afford more than one session per year through legal means.”

Prowl didn’t sound certain of that fact, especially since Swindle shook his head.

“That is not a request,” he started, but Swindle kept shaking his head.

“Downgrade your price estimate,” the merchant said drily. “Vortex is top-shelf product, but clients are charged proportional to how they treat him. Vortex **likes** it hard, and he doesn’t get it as hard as he wants very often. You have no **idea** how twisted he is, mech.” The only customer who gave it to his gestaltmate right was Ratchet, and in return, Ratchet earned the best price. Swindle would charge him a small fortune for the privilege, but Vortex spent entire days purring in the afterglow. That got a discount. “Most of what I charge is for repairs. I make marginal profit and pay Vortex transportation time out of what’s left once I get my cut.” 

He held up a hand to interrupt Prowl’s next question. “I get it, okay? It looks bad. His clients aren’t gentle, and Vortex looks like a wreck afterward. But I’m telling you that he’d give it away for free if I didn’t make him affordable.” To be honest, it surprised Swindle that Vortex made his own arrangements with Ratchet. He knew why Ratchet preferred pay-to-play, but Vortex wasn’t the type to get attached. They seemed like a natural pair to frag and go their separate ways. 

Prowl narrowed his optics. “The price I was quoted is anything but affordable.”

“Which just tells me your informant isn’t into painplay.” Anyone who wanted painplay received a ridiculously low price. Everyone else out for a piece of pretty helicopter was presented with a sky-high price, and Swindle _still_ turned down two-thirds of the offers. He knew the market. Nothing drove prices up like an Out Of Stock sign. 

It helped that Vortex was as picky as a noblemech and preferred his gestaltmates arrange everything for him. He walked around like a free advertisement and fragged whomever they sold him to. That attitude made him excellent shareware, but it was an oddly heavy responsibility to throw on them. Brawl and Swindle didn’t have to worry about customer satisfaction -- Vortex delivered in style -- but they were all Combaticons. For Vortex, being part of Bruticus apparently meant he could trust them to hook him up. For Brawl, it meant he could get in on the action and frag his way through the Decepticons one threesome at a time. For Swindle, it meant he was far more invested in the results of selling shareware than he wanted to be. 

Onslaught thought they were all insane. “He’s toying with everyone, and you know it. I know it. The **walls** know it. Why do you play his games?” he’d asked way back when Vortex first started breaking sparks on Earth.

“Because sex?” Brawl had asked right back, woefully confused that it was even a question.

“Because money?” Swindle had said at the same time.

They’d looked at each other and nodded in mutual agreement. Sex and money made perfect sense to them.

Onslaught had thrown them out on their skidplates, declaring, “This will only end badly, and I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”

They’d shrugged and left, but they exchanged wry looks every time Vortex played coy in the common room or complained about his rotor assembly to them. What a slaghead. The teasing was going to get him in trouble eventually, and it’d probably be their fault for setting him up with someone who couldn’t take it and snapped. Swindle didn’t know about Brawl, but he personally spent too much time fretting when Vortex got laid. 

He didn’t know what to do about this weird concern for someone else’s well-being, so he settled for screening Vortex’s clients via a moving pay scale. Brawl had a hands-on approach to evaluating Vortex’s potential partners, but Swindle figured that higher prices protected his product from people who wouldn’t treat it right, and hiking the price up on Autobots he didn’t like the feel of guarded his teammate from mechs who wouldn’t appreciate what they were buying. 

He also had the occasional urge to promote a sale to potential ‘safe’ clients. “Hmmmm.” 

“Why are you looking at me like that,” Prowl said in an utterly flat voice.

“Can I ask you something, boss?” Swindle smiled his most charming salesmech smile and didn’t wait for an answer. “Why’d you spend all this time and effort to corner me?”

“I require -- “

“Ah-ah!” He shook a finger, tsking. “You said you ID’ed someone! You could have squeezed him for info. But you went after **me**.” He finally turned on his knees to sit sidelong, setting his weight on the ground instead of his broken axle. Looking up at the Autobot, he let his smile widen. “Me, the enemy. The one you could chase and fight and threaten. You could have spared yourself all the filework and hassle by just staying home and interrogating the guy you already had.” 

Prowl glanced around the mess their fight had made of the shipping yard. “You are implying that this was on purpose. That I enjoy this.” Contempt underscored his words.

Swindle ignored it. “You said you don’t enjoy criminal investigations, but this isn’t the first time we’ve clashed, copper. You’re meticulous. Thorough. When you pin me down at last, I can’t slip free.” Interesting times. He remembered several Autobot brig cells fondly. “But you never cut corners, see? You go all the way, every time, and I think it’s because you **want** to. You don’t want to go the easy route.”

“None of this has been easy.”

“For you? Please. Don’t play me for a fool, Prowl. I know you too well.” He shifted on the ground and sighed. “I’m the last person anybody would compare to you, but I get it. I like to stretch my skills, too.”

Prowl hesitated just a second too long before frowning. 

Swindle’s practiced smile slid into a grin. “A good game of cops and robbers never did anyone harm,” he soothed, only slightly mocking, and Prowl’s doors went up in indignant denial.

“This is not a **game** ,” the Autobot growled.

It was the most emotion he’d ever heard from the stoic ex-Enforcer, and Swindle couldn’t help but prod him a little further. “Oh, yeah? Then why are you by yourself? Where’s your backup? They’re not here, and that’s not S.O.P. for any attack on Decepticons. Even **Decepticons** know Autobots attack in pairs! And I’ll bet you’re off-duty. In fact, I’ll make it a real bet: that list of clients is yours if you can tell me you’ve done any of the legwork leading up to this while on-shift,” he challenged. 

Prowl met his optics, but the Autobot’s lips thinned to a tight, unhappy line.

“Thought so.”

“I have -- had -- legitimate concerns about what certain Autobots were doing to someone who, while not normally considered a victim, could still be victimized,” Prowl grated out. “Those concerns are unsubstantiated, but I will continue to investigate suspicious financial activity pertaining to your business.”

“As a hobby.”

“It is not a hobby.”

“Bossbot. Prowl. If you’re doing it off-duty and not telling anyone what you’re investigating on the side,” Swindle drawled, “it’s a hobby.” Prowl’s engine revved, and the mech’s hands curled into fists, but Swindle shrugged off his anger. Prowl liked to play detective. So what? Nothing wrong with that.

Aside from how _annoying_ the past month and a half had been, but money made up for many things. 

“I don’t mind a game or two of chase, you know,” Swindle said. It wasn’t an outright offer, but it was a casual opening. Just testing the water, so to speak. “As long as it doesn’t disrupt profit, something could be arranged. Nothing elaborate, but I’m sure I could think of something you’d like.” He examined the stuffing torn out of his passenger seat closely. Now wasn’t the time to look at Prowl directly. “And I know just the mech to call if you’re into a more, mm, **forceful** interrogation scene.”

A whole minute passed before Prowl replied. It might have taken him that long to find his voice. “What do you mean?” 

Swindle picked at his seat. “I mean I do roleplay, and I wouldn’t mind being your ‘robber’ for the right price.”

“No. I -- yes.” Prowl swallowed audibly. “I understand that. What does ‘forceful interrogation scene’ mean in this context?”

Now he looked up, and Swindle had to admire what he saw. Reluctance was a good look on Prowl. “It means the shareware for sale can take whatever beating you dish out. He won’t break character, and I guaranteed that he’ll be as bad as you want him to be.” He let his voice go silky soft on the last words.

Vents flared so far Swindle could see the slats inside. Prowl liked that idea. He liked it a lot. Swindle had rather thought he would. The straight-laced authoritarian type tended to follow strict policy and procedure to the letter, but they secretly yearned to break all the rules and see how far they could push someone. 

Inside every good cop lived a bad cop. Swindle could sell to both.

“He takes pleasure in pain?” Prowl asked. He sounded unsure. It was the mark of a truly good mech that he’d never violate someone who didn’t want it. 

An overrated mark, in Swindle’s opinion, but one that made Prowl relatively safe to sell his teammate to. Not every Autobot had such reliable moral standards.

“You want to verify?” Swindle asked in return. “Consider it a free sample.” One he’d sampled himself, as he couldn’t believe the extremes Vortex enjoyed until he lived it through Vortex’s own memory. Vortex had packaged and transferred it for Swindle’s peace of mind the last time Ratchet left the ‘copter a trembling pile of spare parts.

Temptation fought caution. 

Swindle put a delicate finger on the scales. “Think about it this way: you’re an Autobot. I’m a Decepticon. What’s for sale isn’t really the issue here, so why not take a look at my wares before you take all the time in the world to decide if you buy?” In other words, buying and selling the product was legal. It was up to the Autobot’s conscience whether he’d buy it from Decepticons.

Prowl glared at him for the manipulation, but Swindle’s logic did tip the scales. Temptation won. “How am I to know your sample isn’t edited?”

Swindle turned his palms up, unlocking a transfer cable from his wrist in the motion. “It is. All incriminating details on his client are blurred out. You’ll have to accept that I didn’t tamper with it more than that. It wouldn’t be a very good sample if I changed Vortex’s reactions, would it?” 

Prowl didn’t look any less suspicious, but it was either trust Swindle or walk away at this point, and the merchant had set his hooks too deep. Doubting, distrustful, Prowl extended his own cable. 

To his credit, Swindle handled it like a professional. Careful hands took the cable and connected it to the appropriate port as Prowl did the same to Swindle’s offered cable. A swift connection, a polite knock on Prowl’s firewall, and the file began downloading.

Swindle watched him stream it, and he couldn’t help but replay the unedited version for himself.

_He was well beyond hearing any command spat at him, but Ratchet wasn’t one for unnecessary words. When he partied, he partied hard. When he interfaced, he fragged the bolts off the wall he ‘faced so hard. When he had Vortex, he really let loose. ‘Hard’ didn’t describe how far, long, and deep he did the ‘copter. Words would simply have softened the impact._

_Vortex knew the lack of words was supposed to distance them, turn the session into as an impersonal encounter as possible, but latent Autobot guilt for hiring a Decepticon just made Ratchet come down harder. For that, he loved the medic, if only a little._

_A little, and usually at times like right now, right when smoke coated the inside of his vents, singeing his fans. He sobbed for clean air as Ratchet skipped giving orders and dragged him to his feet by his dislocated shoulders. The joints popped completely out of their sockets, overstretched cables throbbing as they transmitted shrill pain through too-taut wires. One popped, fibers fraying at the end. Electricity spat as they hit unprotected metal, sending jolts of charge through already bent armor, bruised struts, cracked glass. Vortex wailed a rough, rasping croak of pain as the new agony penetrated the sweet singing blaze of constant damage reports torching his cortex._

_He stumbled forward when Ratchet shoved him, and the table took him in the midriff. Something cracked, and the wail became a gasping laugh, breathless and ecstatic. Doubled over on the table, he clawed at its surface as Autobot hands coated in thick layers of his internal fluids tore open his equipment hatch, ripping apart the hinges at the perfect rate to maximize the pain._

_And then -- oh, Primus, yes -- and then his ports were exposed to cruel, cold air, so frigid against his overheated metal the latchkeys flinched closed. Ratchet’s plug caught them that way, bowed them inward until they buckled, and Vortex screamed and screamed as his own latchkeys were folded by whatever adaptor the medic had chosen to torture him with. It crammed in, snapping the latchkeys in half at last as stiff, too-big prongs forced into receptor slots. Feedback howled through his interface system, sensitive equipment jammed full, overfull, bursting at the seams as Ratchet split him open and crammed his port past capacity._

_Ratchet said not a word as he pulsed jolting charge into Vortex’s damaged equipment, mercilessly electrocuting the mech shrieking his praises._

The file ended on that note. Vortex had lost consciousness, but he claimed the session hadn’t stopped there. Ratchet had brought the ‘copter back online for another hour of slow, painful interfacing that stripped Vortex raw one completed cycled at a time. Vortex described the entire hour in dreamy, loving detail. 

Swindle rather thought he’d hallucinated the whole thing. He certainly hadn’t been in his right mind afterward. It’d taken forever for Swindle to coax him out of the floaty high pain put him in, and repairs had taken another full day. 

Regardless, the memory file was convincing enough evidence that Vortex was a happy masochist. Swindle looked up at Prowl expectantly. “So. Should I bring him in for…questioning?” He put a hint of leer into his voice. 

Prowl looked down at him, impassive as ever. Swindle watched the air surrounding him shimmer like fine print written in rising heat. A hundred provisos wavering with desire. A thousand conditions steaming off hot black-and-white armor. Lust, couched in Swindle’s native tongue of terms and exceptions and exemptions and limitations. 

He knew what Prowl would say before the Autobot opened his mouth.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
